


They Never Go Away

by Laerkstrein



Series: God Help Us [1]
Category: War Horse (2011)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Gen, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laerkstrein/pseuds/Laerkstrein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He shouldn't have come out of that massacre in anything but a bodybag, shouldn't have been bandaged up and shipped home while so many others had lay dead and dying on the field. Others hadn't even touched the earth, had ended up dead in the saddle, hanging by a stirrup as they were dragged on. Alternate events in <i>War Horse.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	They Never Go Away

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://niger-ut-niveus.livejournal.com/126364.html) on my LJ comm on 01.07.13.

What is this strange darkness that dances about before his eyes? Surely, it cannot be Death, for there have been tales told of those who have met him, come back and said that he was far colder than walking through the deepest part of a winter's night, or even bright and welcoming, like lying in the sun on a summer morn and allowing it to encompass you in comfort. This is neither of those things. It is nothing more than confusing, distracting, what with gentle sparks appearing here and there, flashing bright like the rapid fire of German guns. This can't be death, though it must certainly be close, for he can feel the impact as though he's still coated in the scent of tall grass, flying backwards out of the saddle.

His eyes open and he's wide awake, drenched, not only by the soft cloths laid against aching wounds, but in a cold sweat, that which is brought about by fear, antagonistic anticipation. It's not a tent he's in, but the warm walls of what must be a hospital, surrounded on all sides by wide-eyed nurses in dresses that look very much like nightgowns. But, looking to them, he realizes that this is no infirmary; that the women who stand at his bedside are not hospital staff with bandages and painkillers, but familiar faces, all turned red now and shocked that he's staring up at them.

Behind the youngest of the girls, a cousin aged at least twelve by now, one of them runs out with a cry, her face obscured by the lack of light in the room, and it takes him several moments to realize that that had been his elder sister, perhaps run off to inform his mother, obviously absent, of the news. The rest of them stare, speak in quiet tones as if they'll somehow upset him. What a foolish thought. As if James could possibly be bothered by anything other than the fact that he's alive and breathing.

He shouldn't have come out of that massacre in anything but a body bag, shouldn't have been bandaged up and shipped home while so many others had lay dead and dying on the field. He had watched them, the men he had joked and laughed and drank with once upon a time, the reins yanked from their hands as they flew back off their horses, hit the ground to be trampled by the ongoing charge. Others hadn't even touched the earth, had ended up dead in the saddle, hanging by a stirrup as they were dragged on, probably only removed once the animal too had perished or been taken by the Germans.

As they stand there whispering, he can see it all over again, feel the utter dread in the pit of his stomach as the bullets come flying, one catching him in the shoulder and sending him off into the dirt, left to watch those few fleeting seconds in which Joey speeds on and out of sight. And James had hoped, more than for his own swift death, that the beautiful creature would have the strength to endure the days of war if he survived. And it gets him to thinking: What had become of Topthorn, of Charlie and Jamie? And what of young Albert? What would he say were word to get back to him that the captain had failed him, his beloved horse, and taken Joey off to die?

James flinches, suddenly hot beneath the sheets, and fingers run through his matted hair, a soft whisper in his ear that everything is all right; that he's safe and home. But everything is not all right; far from it. If he was well enough to survive, he should have been left to the care of the sick bay, not brought home on a train or a ship or whatever the hell they'd sent him off on. He should have stayed on the battlefield, been given another chance to fulfill that promise, to find Joey and ensure that he made it safely home. Even if James himself didn't.

He doesn't like this, seeing them all smile as they stand around, laughing and crying and no longer worrying as to whether or not he'll wake again. Three weeks, they say he's been under, thrashing in his sleep and sweating buckets as though he's been swimming in the river. James should be happy, should be relieved to be back home again, safe from gunfire and the pain of continuously watching his comrades die. But so long as Joey is out there, his fate unknown, the captain knows he'll never sleep again.

Emma comes then, his Emma, hesitates before she touches him, purses her lips and doesn't bother telling him that there are scars, pieces missing, that their nights alone will never be the same. She just rests her forehead on his shoulder, one hand curling into the sheets where his left arm should be, and cries.

They'll make due, she says. It'll go away, she says.

But James knows better. His promise, Joey, can't just fade like dust in the wind. Things like this never go away.


End file.
